creepycorners

So, it finally happened. It’s over. The end that many didn’t see coming. As in true Psycho form, you thought you figured it out; then it still gave you a surprise.
If you didn’t watch the final episode of Bates Motel last night, you might want to turn your head.

Like many fans of the show, I cut my horror teeth devouring Hitchcock movies. I have my mom to thank for introducing me to what a real thriller is. Let’s face it, by today’s standards some may find these movies a little tame. I can agree on this on some level, but wait until the story has time to marinate in your brain and then check your shorts.

One of the things that made Psycho such a hit was the element of surprise. It was the first movie that you were not allowed wonder throughout the theater once it started. You sat and watched from beginning to end and then you were asked to keep the ending a secret.  Imagine doing that know. I can’t even glance at a preview without figuring out too much information. For me the movie becomes tainted. Where’s the surprise, the creeps, or anticipation? Having pointed that out, I feel obligated to remind you that if you didn’t watch the final episode of Bates Motel last night, walk away now.

Another aspect to Psycho is that you were led to imagine your internal horrors. The viewer did not witness the gory details, and yet somehow saw them in their mind. They were given the opportunity imagine the worst. Many swore after watching it that the blood in the tub was red. Forgetting the movie was in black and white. Viewers were introduced to a hint of the horror, unaware how deeply the ideas seeded in their minds.

Then, last but not least, you had Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates. Something about him just made you love this awkward young man. His behavior at the end just brings you to want to know more even though that look in his eyes made your blood shiver. Intrigued by a dark secret that just wouldn’t let you go. This curiosity is what truly brought me to Bates Motel. What made Norman Bates tick?

I started watching Bates Motel fingers crossed and holding my breath. Like many fans of Psycho, my standards were high. For starters, don’t mess up my affection for Norman! You see in my head there was only one Norman Bates.  Yes, he killed a lady, stuffed his mother, and ran around the house in her clothes, but I still had a soft place for this awkward character.  Then I watched Freddie Highmore. Early on, I recognized Norman’s mannerisms. It was as if he summoned Mr. Perkins himself to guide him through the halls of the iconic house. I was relieved to see Norman portrayed as a kind young man who’s troubles evolved from a dark history instead of just accepting that he was a madman.

Then enter Norma. Oh my goodness, I couldn’t have picked a better Norma!  I loved her outbursts, her madness, her passion, and even her most vulnerable moments. Let’s face it. There were times in life that you just wanted to go all out Norma when the world around you is just a mess.  Vera Farmiga brought to Norma what Anthony Perkins brought to Norman. She gave that stuffed lady in the window life and personality. She was a beautiful and a caring mother. Until then we may have assumed that Mother was nothing but cruel to Norman. Instead, we grew to love and rally for Norma to be happy.

I quickly realized that the creators were actual fans of the movie and did not want to taint a classic. It was also designed to be enjoyed by those who may have missed out on the original. It had it’s own story and direction without cutting itself away from what we all assumed would be the end. Then, there it was last night. The final shower curtain fell. We all thought that history would repeat itself and yet we were surprised. It was as if Norman found himself trapped in a rewinding hell, doomed to relive what he had done again. Then his mother, his conscience, brought him to the realization of who he truly was and what drove his madness. The blame was no longer on Mother, the denial and blackouts were over. Yes, there was a bloody death. That’s just a requirement; he is Norman Bates! If not, I think the fans would have rioted in the local housewares with butcher knives, the shower section of course. However, this murder was different, he understood it, and he owned it. He was not going to be the victim. He faced his demons and took it out on the town adulterer. He may have killed a man in the shower, but this time he was Norman.  He charged in there for Mother, not as Mother. He did it for love.

In that final moment, Norman Bates finally woke up in room 1 of the Bates Motel.

I have owned a Magic 8 Ball for well over twenty years. I purchased a new one a few months ago because my old faithful needed a transfusion and I’m not skilled in 8 Ball medical practices. I may not use it often, but when I do, I like to get straight answers. Not long ago I was in one of those moods and decided to give this new one a workout. I unloaded some serious questions about my future, with only vague or inconsistent answers. That’s when the snarky section of my brain lit up. I began to confront the dark sphere and document the responses. I rediscovered my notes this morning.

Me: Are you lying to me?
8 Ball: Yes Definitely

Me: Are you still lying to me?
8 Ball: As I See It Yes

Me: Seriously?
8 Ball: Signs Point To Yes

Me: Should I ever believe you again?
8 Ball: Signs Point To Yes

Me: But I don’t believe you.
8 Ball: Yes definitely

Me: Do you say anything with a no?
8 Ball: Ask again later

Me: How much later?
8 Ball: Concentrate and ask again

A few minutes pass.

Me: Should a start a blog?
8 Ball: Without a doubt.

 

I was about to begin my senior year of college. I arrived in town the day before my dorm room would be available. I was alone; the car was packed full of my belongings, and it was dark. I got a room in a quiet motel just off Route 11. My situation already had the ingredients for a classic Hitchcock movie and what better way to creep myself out than watch something scary on television.

I had heard of the show The X-Files but had not seen it. I knew it was something I should get involved in, but the opportunity wasn’t available. I was a college student with no TV or connection to that channel at my parents’ home. Kids, this was the 90’s, when cable was a luxury. You know, back when people still had to point their rabbit ears to the stars. There was no internet streaming. One had to plan their lives around a show’s air time. The technologically gifted could set a VCR to record, assuming the electricity didn’t go out leaving that evil 12:00 glaring at them. I’m getting off topic; It was on that night, and I finally had a chance to see what all the excitement was about!

“The Host” was my initiation into the X-World. I guess if one is going to dive into The X-Files, they might as well go headfirst into a pool of radioactive sewage with a giant flukeman. Then, in that one episode, I was infected with the fandom parasite. I enjoyed that episode so much that I proceeded to secure the door to the adjoining room with the old chair under the doorknob technique. I guess if I were serious about surviving a flukeman invasion, I would have secured the bathroom door instead.

I spent the remainder of my college year scoping out viewing areas and times with other fans. After graduating, my first cable purchase involved an in-depth discussion confirming they did, in fact, carry the proper channel. I bought all the VHS tapes available and even contacted the manufacturer when I didn’t receive one of the collector cards included. I still have the letter they sent with the missing card. I picked up numerous magazines and other fan themed items along the way. This show was the perfect match for all my interests and fascinations. Then when it was over, I never actually found another to fill the gap.

Jump ahead 20 years. They’re back! Like many fans, I’ve been enjoying the revival of team Mulder and Scully this short season. It’s exciting to get those old spooky chills going, the suspense, the conspiracy and let’s not forget the music. It’s like running into an old boyfriend and reminiscing the good ole days. Then they play your song and time rewinds like an old VHS tape. Where all those giddy feelings return and for an hour, you forget the stress of adulthood. You revert to a time when the fear and paranoia were still fiction. Assuming, that’s what you want to believe. I may be getting a little sentimental for some, but as any fan knows, you never forget your first X-Moment.

Hunkering down at the beginning of what many claim will be a record breaking snow storm. I chose to use my seclusion to start a blog. This project has been wanting to surface for some time, but as many of you know, getting started in the hardest part. So, in honor of my snowy entrapment, I dedicate this entry to storms.

There are situations in a story that will only come to surface if the characters are planted directly into the eye a storm. How many books or movies can you name in under two minutes that have some significant atmospheric event to cause the story to escalate?

I’m sure you came up with a few. Now think about how that storm affected the characters. To tap into one’s paranoia, greed, or see what madness lurks in their minds, it takes a storm to allow these feelings to surface. I don’t know if we are drawn to the fear and helplessness the characters face or if it’s knowing that someone will rise to the occasion and be the hero. I try not to analyze a story to death and avoid many reviews. I like to let the words or images tumble in my head and form my own conclusions. Later, what develops in my head freaks me out more that what the story is showing. I’m sure this happens to many readers and movie goers. I believe that a successful writer or director is counting on that. Planting those subliminal monsters to chew on your gray matter when you are least expecting them. Not long ago I may have had a visit from one of those monsters.

The snow was falling, and we were hustling to get out of town. We didn’t want to miss Christmas with my parents. Time and an impending temperature drop would keep us off the road, and we had several hours to travel. We made one stop in town for provisions knowing the possibility of traffic issues and no place to stop. I sprinted into our small town grocer reciting the list in my head. As the electronic doors sealed behind me, I felt a calmness envelope me. The employees did not hurry in their tasks, and some were laughing and joking around. I didn’t see one anxious shopper trying to beat the storm. Everyone just in their moment, not bothered my the blowing wet snow swallowing the town. I slowed my pace thinking to myself, “If I found myself trapped in a snow storm, a grocery store wouldn’t be a bad place.” I started listing the necessities that were within arms length. Thinking how it would be just one giant slumber party with the store employees and my neighbors that I had not met yet.

A few aisles deep into the heart of the structure I felt it. The quiet. It wasn’t a peaceful quiet. The kind of quite that lurks as if an old hag was looming over me about to whisper in my ear. I felt the aisles closing in. It was subtle; no one noticed the walls getting heavy and being squeezed inward by the snow outside. Shoppers seemed less in a hurry if that was possible. I could picture one turning her head, uncurling her grinning mouth full of pointed teeth. Then as she winked, a tear in the fabric of our reality spilling out the sludge of evil. I picked up my pace, gathered the provisions and aimed for the checkout. The looming became distant, but still there. I didn’t dare look back into the aisles but could feel the shoppers staring at me with their dark eyes. The cashier seemed to show little concern about traveling home later. Making small talk as the items glided across the big red eye on the counter. I gave a pleasant half-smile as she handed me my change, then headed for the door. I was too fast for the electronic eye and almost stumbled with the delay. I leaped through the opening. When the doors sealed behind me, I didn’t look back.

Had I experienced a moment where those subliminal monsters started picking at my brain? Was there an actual threat? Was I over anxious about the drive through the storm? Did I watch “The Mist” far too many times? Whatever the reason, it took a storm to bring me to that store. It also took a storm for me to start this blogging adventure.